‘If God spares me and I have no success in Reims, I’ll go straight there, I promise.’

‘Good. Good. Now tell me where you’ll be staying in Reims.’

‘At the Continental. I thought I’d treat myself to a bit of comfort. I’ve got a tarte tatin to follow if you’re interested. Not for me, of course – but I’ll gladly watch you eat it. A glass of mirabelle with it?’

Left alone after the affectionate farewells and the last-minute advice and repeated instructions, Didier washed the dishes and put them back in their place on the dresser. He glanced around, checking that he’d left everything in good order. Soldierly habits acquired in the trenches had stayed with him. Even at the lowest moment of that degrading episode the men had shaved, cleaned out their billy cans, deloused themselves and maintained their equipment.

Good Lord! Equipment! He was getting forgetful. Time to get this over while he still had his wits. Didier went to his bedroom and pulled a chair over to the wardrobe. He climbed up and felt about under a selection of hats on the top shelf until he found it.

The six shot Lebel army revolver sat easily in his grasp. He’d handled and cleaned it regularly since the end of the war. He wrapped it in a silk scarf and pushed it into the centre of his suitcase, standing ready packed on the chest at the bottom of his bed. He added a box of bullets and closed it with a snap. He was ready. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the dressing-table mirror and drew in his breath, startled by what he saw.

He’d seen the same expression countless times on faces of comrades, an unforgettable blend of terror and resignation.

He was about to go over the top.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Birthmark? Yes, it could be. Or a mark acquired at birth? Not the same thing. Signs of a forceps delivery perhaps? Yes, again, it could be. I’m no expert in this field, you understand. Marks of this sort in the majority of cases fade away with time but they are not unknown in adults, I understand.’

Dr Varimont handed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Anyway, you shall judge for yourself. I just give evidence. Look, I’ve plotted the position and measurements on this plan of the body The frontal mark is dark purple, the size of a centime piece, no more, and just where you said it might be, to the left of centre. That’s the left as you look at him. It wasn’t easy. Thibaud doesn’t much like being handled – squirms and wriggles like a two-year-old – even though he is familiar with the orderlies who carried out the inspection. I chose the two who’ve had closest contact with him and briefed them to get out their combs and bottles of Sanitol and pretend to be carrying out the usual procedures. Routine calms him.’

‘Exactly as Mademoiselle Desforges described it, this mark,’ said Joe. ‘That would seem to be conclusive, then.’ He struggled to suppress a smile of satisfaction. ‘I’ll convey this to Inspector Bonnefoye as tactfully as I can. Don’t want to tread on toes, I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Of course. We ought all of us to have come across this sooner. I can send him a sketch if you like and tell him it’s come up as a matter of routine inspection . . . true enough.’

‘Thank you, Varimont. I would like that. But – am I missing something? Tell me, did you say frontal mark just now? Was that to imply that there is something else?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact there was.’ The doctor handed over a second sheet. ‘Difficult to see even if you’re looking for it. A corresponding rear mark. Which is what makes me think it may have been caused by forceps used at birth. It’s faint but it’s there all right. A mother would remember.’

‘But you found no sign of ancient scarring – no signs of physical abuse?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘It’s no baby’s bottom down there but I think you could say – nothing dramatic. Wear and tear consistent with years in the saddle, I’d say. Or years in the trenches – everything from flea bites to shrapnel. He’s as knocked about as any soldier of any of the armies.’

‘Thank you very much, doctor.’ Joe held up the sheets. ‘This could well be a clincher. I say, may I . . .’

‘By all means have them. I’ve had copies made. I’ll send some with a covering note by messenger to Bonnefoye straight away. And good luck with the rest of your enquiries. Do I take it that the field is still open?’

‘Wide open, I’d say. I’m off to see the Tellancourt family tomorrow morning.’

The doctor raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. ‘Family? More like a tribe – a clan,’ he commented. ‘One for all and all for one. Have a care, Sandilands. Tell Bonnefoye you’re going. If you’re not back by midnight he can send out a posse. Not thinking of taking the little girl along, I hope?’

‘No. She’s happy to stay behind at the hotel and catch up with her diary entries, she tells me,’ Joe said. The word ‘happy’ was a polite exaggeration.

‘Take my advice, Sandilands,’ said the doctor, riffling through his file, ‘and make a telephone call to let them know you’re coming. Give ’em a chance to chain up the dog. Farming family . . . busy time of year . . . there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to parade for you without due notice and you don’t want to have to go hunting about in the fields.’

He scribbled figures on a pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to Joe.

‘They have a telephone?’

‘Not at the farm, no. The first of those numbers will connect you with the town hall. The mayor’s secretary is a Mademoiselle Tellancourt, the cousin of the missing soldier, and the second number is that of the village café. The owner – yes, you’ve guessed! – is also a Tellancourt. The soldier’s uncle. They are all utterly convinced that our Thibaud is their Thomas. And so eager are they to return him to his home before his awful old father expires, they arrived here at the hospital en masse one Sunday when I was off duty and they had our man halfway out through the gate with his head in a bag before someone stepped in – bravely! – to stop them. Good luck. Let me know how you get on.’

Joe braked and pulled off the road on a lift of country overlooking what he took to be the valley where lay the Tellancourt farm. On his journey west and south from Reims he had left the vineyards behind and was now contemplating agricultural land. Mixed farming apparently was going on and with some success. Cereals had been harvested and various animals wandered the fields. A number of fine white charolais cropped the meadow grass under the willows by the river looking for all the world like a scene painted by Corot. The village in the foreground appeared to be in good condition. A squat church with Romanesque nave and transept stoutly shouldering a grey-tiled tower marked the centre. Red roofs of varying ages and states of repair radiated from it and merged into orchards on the outskirts, marking a settlement much larger than he had envisaged.

The church clock of St Céré-sur-Marne was sounding ten as he drove into the village square and Joe made at once for the café. It was a hot day, he had half an hour to spare and a sudden craving for a glass of Alsace beer.

In the dim interior two old men at a table were playing dominoes. They stopped their game to stare at him, hostile and mistrustful. A group of young men, the owners, he presumed of the motor bikes parked proudly outside, were sitting in front of tankards of bière blonde. No point in trying to make a discreet entrance, Joe thought. He marched in with his officer’s swagger, took off his cap and stood surveying the interior with polite greetings all round before deciding to approach the bar. He placed one elbow firmly on the zinc counter and with a crisp, ‘Monsieur!’ caught the barkeeper’s unwilling attention. The man who served him was silent and unfriendly. When he had enjoyed his first two swallows of Fischer, Joe determined to break through his reticence. ‘That was welcome! Fine church you have,’ he said cheerfully, in a voice that included the rest of the clientèle. ‘I must take a closer look at it. The village was lucky to have escaped much of the unpleasantness, I take it?’